May This Song Reach You
by HayashiOkami
Summary: The serial rapes and murders of young men in Las Vegas forces the CSI to call in the BAU of the FBI when there is no evidence or leads. The case really should not have been so hard for the BAU, except it soon grows personal as they unveil the unsub.
1. Detail Oriented

_**May This Song Reach You**_

_**Chapter One: **__Detail Oriented_

Something was wrong. Something was irrevocably wrong with this scene, further than the very nature of the crime.

There had to have been some mistake; someone must have erred along the investigation, missed the minutest piece of evidence, overlooked suspects, or messed up the test results from the lab. Yet none of that could be reasonably true, not when the entire police force from the morgue to the detectives had double and triple checked every aspect of this case. The crime had played foul to begin with, even with five bodies in the records and numerous sleepless nights spent pining over the details they _must_ have missed. One body usually held an entire novel's worth of evidence, and there shouldn't have been any other result this time.

They had entered a different man's garden now, where there was no evidence to be had. The man had ensured that he pruned his foliage with the utmost care and swept every stray bit of debris with him as he shut the perfectly oiled gate. The team had intruded upon this picturesque image and though they had picked apart every finely printed detail, there had been nothing to find that the criminal had not wished for them to find. It might have appeared to be negligence on behalf of the CSI, but this time the bodies did not tell the entire story.

Had this been a normal case, they would have solved it five weeks ago with the first body. Now another young man was dead, another life that would never breathe in order to laugh or cry again. A sixth flame had been whisked away from beneath their fingers, and another week had passed. There was no deviation in the crime scene from what had become the norm. Unless the criminal slipped and made a fatal mistake, he would continue unmolested.

Nicholas Stokes withheld a scoff as he knelt down to examine the deep lacerations for the records. He could predict the width, consistency, and length of those wounds without seeing the victim. The only particulars he did not already know about this crime was the young man's identity, and that was easily remedied by the driver's license propped against the body, which had already fallen into the late stages of rigor mortis. Extensive examinations of each body always yielded plentiful information, but none of which was useful to apprehend the serial murderer.

There was bruising around the wrists and ankles from both bindings and human hands, as well as throughout the rest of the body, notably around the neck and hips. The chest wounds were numerous and deep, caused by a common kitchen knife, particularly one of the carbon steel varieties, which were inexpensive and easily sharpened. Test results from the lab concluded that a fresh, unmarked blade was used each time. The wounds lacked pattern, though they were precise and clean cuts executed with the utmost expertise. These lacerations extended to the legs where many tendons and muscles had been severed.

The cause of death: blood loss. The young men had also been subjected to brutal rape before their deaths, though the criminal had left no traces of fluids behind. He had redressed each young man, closed their prone eyelids, and folded their bruised hands over their chests before he placed them in an alleyway to be found.

Nick would not stand to see this case be shoved away in a 'cold case' box on the shelves in the basement to collect dust for decades. He set his kit down beside the body, his coworkers at his side, and they prepared themselves for another long, fruitless night of searching. The dark dankness of the alleyway was their only company, and the golden bands familiar to residents of Las Vegas enclosed them in a cage that contained a story it refused to release. The bird had perished long ago, the cat retired to its creature comforts with its secrets for another week, waiting for an accusation that would not come.

He must not have slept for over twenty-four hours, most of which had been voluntary and obsessive work. He was not known for a calm, collected composure, but this case had worn down most of the team's reserves, so they were each forgiving of the others' sharp tempers and moods. When he returned home, he returned to work three hours later with a resolve to find something, _anything_, to deliver peace to those victims and their mourning family and friends. Despite the obvious answer in front of their faces, he convinced himself that they were just not trying hard enough.

Somewhere among these six bodies was a sliver of evidence, just enough to point the investigation in the right direction. Humans were not perfect. The criminal had to have made a mistake, a simple oversight perhaps, even if the team could not yet find it. He was almost certain of that. It was the only truth he could believe in now.

The labs had yielded a couple of leads in the first two weeks, but those trails had been bled dry after the local police pushed the investigation. All evidence pointed to people the victims had interacted with before their abductions and deaths, but those who should have been suspects were confirmed to have solid alibis. The cycles were so infuriating that Nick often cursed whenever he found identifiable hairs or fibers. He knew where they would take him: straight into unforgiving, repetitive brick walls. All they needed was one tiny crack in the cement, a crack made by time and patience.

Despite his hopeful and reasonable thoughts, three more tiresome days passed in the labs hunched over microscopes yielding no further results than the norm. Nick wanted to scream and yank his hair out from frustration. Time _was_ running thin; they couldn't wait forever. The criminal had maintained a fairly accurate schedule of one kill per week. All the warnings in the world could not keep another victim from the murderer's hands. Warnings meant nothing to the young, who were not about to stop their lives because of a wild vagrant, even if that vagrant might emerge from stories and into reality.

"Drop what you're doing. We're having a conference in five," called the gruff voice of Gil Grissom from the hallway. Nick lifted his head from the microscope containing red blood cells and blinked away the strain from his eyes. A wide yawn escaped him as he stretched his back, the vertebrae progressively creaking down his spine. Everyone around him shared similar pains. There was little he could object to about the conference. The team was at their wits end, so even if this led them nowhere, they all needed a break from the labs.

Nick had no idea as to what Gil planned for them today, but he could hardly think straight as it was. Gil had taken a break last night and crashed for a few hours at home, so he seemed a much more trustworthy source than anyone else here. Maybe, and this was wishing beyond the realm of all possible wishes, he had formed an idea during that time. When the team had all assembled in the chairs surrounding the rounded conference table in varying levels of exhaustion, Gil commenced his speech.

"After these five weeks of work on this case, I've combed the matter thoroughly and came to a conclusion we all know is true: this has advanced beyond our control. We're pushing six weeks with absolutely no useful evidence and short, dead leads as our limits. There are too many lives in danger the longer we sit here picking at sand. I brought up the case with some colleagues, and some of them suggested we take the case up to the FBI.

"To be specific, some recommended that we hand the case over to the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. This unit specializes in analyzing the criminal and crime scene rather than just the material evidence alone. From what I've heard, the BAU explores the minds of the criminals as told by the scene and evidence in order to predict their motives. If there aren't any objections, I'll call them at their headquarters in Quantico, Virginia today." Gil stood steady at the front of the room, each person around the table muttering in equal amounts.

There were doubts among them, of course. The BAU sounded like a rather peculiar section of the FBI. No one had ever heard about it before, but they admitted it was impossible to object with so little progress in the past five weeks. There were even doubts about the feds in general. Nick rubbed his temples in an attempt to ease the pain behind his eyes, figuring that the case couldn't get any worse if they handed it off to another jurisdiction. Personal beliefs aside, they unanimously agreed to vote 'yes' by the end of it.

Satisfied and solemn, Gil dismissed the team with the order to freshen up and catch some well-needed sleep. With any luck, the BAU would arrive later that day. It wouldn't do to meet the feds half-dead and exhausted, looking much like corpses themselves.

Nick yawned a second time and reluctantly rose from his seat, staggering as he walked away from the conference room. He and Catherine headed back towards the room near the end of the hall, sharing tired waves with each other. The cold, stark lab filled with the mechanical hum he had grown accustomed towards echoed in his ears and eyes. It was a sound and sight that replayed in even his sleep nowadays. Though he didn't dream, he always fell asleep and woke with them invading his senses. He sighed and flicked the microscope's switch off. Under its scrutiny, the red blood cells of the newest victim shone as a tiny speck of blood on the slide.

Nick slid the glass out and went to tidy the place up. Reports were stacked every which way, and he and Catherine would have to gather them for the FBI agents before they got to rest. As far as he knew, that the first three victims' reports were near Catherine, the rest near his workspace. Someone would have to inform the medical examiners who were conducting the new autopsy.

Sara might do that, Nick figured, as he saw her head towards the direction of the stairs and elevators, and he was glad. He would rather not visit the corpses again, as he had done for weeks. The earliest bodies had already been sent to their graves, but that didn't matter so much when they had pictures and other corpses with identical causes of death. Only the latest three remained in the cold shelves below the floors where he stood. They had about four days until the seventh victim ended up down there, found in a random alleyway in Las Vegas.

Whatever the BAU was and however skilled they were, Nick hoped that they could do the job quickly and efficiently. If they could see something the CSI team had not in the evidence, it would be a miracle.

The team rushed around for a good part of the day after the conference, gathering data and collecting their files in one spot. They had been a little disorganized running from victim to victim, autopsy report to autopsy report. Gil had phoned the personnel in Virginia shortly after they adjourned and received a response saying that the BAU had accepted and would arrive as soon as they could. Virginia seemed a century away from Nevada, but Nick supposed that airplanes were invented for a reason. The rough thousand or so miles still made him edgy, though.

The minutes were ticking down until the criminal scoured the streets for another victim. For a time, it had never struck him that these murders were the work of a serial killer. At the very least, they could call the criminal a serial killer now. Over three murders on this level certainly allowed the murderer to be called such.

Nick locked the door to the labs as he left down the hallway. Sara had returned and requested everyone meet up at the new crime scene to greet the FBI agents. Nick didn't know where the time went, but the afternoon was winding down and their day had just started. Greg drove the car, since he had also taken a break sometime last night. Even he, with his strange ways, was worn from this case. No one spoke to him as he concentrated on the road, but they hardly spoke anyways.

There were mostly soft murmurs wondering about the agents that would take over their investigation. Nick was not the only person with doubts and he was not the only person who had given up hope of finding hard evidence from this case. Still, it was hard to convince people who placed their beliefs in forensics alone that people who based their investigation off subjective material that didn't even have an existing form could solve what they could not.

The car pulled up to the alley where Gil was waiting for them, leaning indiscriminately against the grimy brick wall. Further down a large, dried pool of blood had crusted over the ground with various signs propped besides the little evidence left behind. The team climbed out from the car and stood at the entrance of the alley to wait. Even though three days had passed, a few civilians had gathered to observe the crime scene. Nick thought that it should serve as a warning.

If people were just more careful...no, he corrected himself after a moment. Horrible things like this would happen anyways. Criminals always found a way to fulfill their desires, whether or not they were diverted a few times along their path, and it was their duty to catch them. It was someone else's duty to prevent these crimes. There was nothing else to it.

For the hundredth time he checked his watch and tapped its glassy surface. Traffic might be holding the agents up, but they were set to arrive soon. Las Vegas roads were known for being crowded. In such a big city it was unavoidable, but they day was nearing rush-hour, which made it worse. While they waited Greg cracked a few jokes and lightened up the mood. It had worked for the most part. Eventually, Nick volunteered to grab coffee for the team, unable to remain stationary any longer. With all the coffee they had consumed lately it was a wonder they hadn't crashed yet. Coffee wasn't a reliable energy source. It definitely had its adverse side effects.

Both the manager and cashier were surprised at the amount of coffee he ordered until they realized that they were talking to a member of the team investigating the murders. They even offered a discount, which he had been forced to accept due to their persistence. It wasn't like the money was out of his pocket, but it was a nice offer. Nick thanked the pair and quickly left the bakery. People had started to stare, and while he was used to it, the whispers were always awkward. At the best of times he felt as if he actually deserved their attention, but not now. He should probably return in case the FBI agents had arrived.

Leaving the sore with bags of strong, dark coffee, Nick noticed that people muttered an awful lot about the case. The media withheld many vital details, refusing to plunge the city into a state of panic, but Nick understood the citizens' agitation. Ironically, there wasn't much _to_ tell. All of the supposed secrecy was had nothing to do with the media's reluctance to release information. The media simply kept the city from knowing the extent of the hopelessness Nick experienced in the labs. People were still nervous.

They all wondered who would be next. Still, they could not believe that they could become a victim until it happened to them or someone dear to them. No one was truly safe, even if the criminal had his preference for males. Nick had worked too many cases to believe that everyone was always safe. Should someone get in the way, some criminals wouldn't hesitate to end their lives to meet their goals.

When Nick returned to the alleyway surrounded by yellow tape, new cars had arrived on scene. The nerves in his stomach twisted as he saw hope for the first time in weeks. He had to resist the urge to jog over, to immediately determine what team had been sent to take their case. They were FBI, elite, so he didn't know what to expect. There were not many FBI agents he could recall seeing in his life. He knocked the silly notion of the SWAT teams in full gear out of his head. They would be sent in some other time, when the serial killer was caught.

He did not even want to cross the idea of 'if' the serial killer was caught. He refused to consider such an option. Now that they had gone to such measures, progress would pick up again.

Nick got most of the image he expected when he saw the agents talking to Gil and Sara. Two agents were serious in their demeanors; one was a woman, and two other men were laughing with her as they departed from the car. Nick could not find much that was funny about the crime scene, but they looked professional enough. Gil was briefing them on the case already and introducing the CSI as Nick hurried over, coffee in tow. In turn, a solemn man with dark hair introduced his agents. Somehow, Nick had a feeling that this case would take an interesting turn.

The agents had taken on pensive faces in an instant as Gil ran through the locations where the bodies were found and the work previously done on this case. The FBI Unit Chief was the solemn man, Aaron Hotchner, and his Supervisory Special Agents David Rossi, Derek Morgan, Emily Prentiss, and Spencer Reid. A blonde woman named Jennifer Jareau was their 'media liaison', a job Nick had never heard too much about in detail. The team seemed like a rather alright one, but the CSI would soon see if they could succeed where their predecessors could not. The new view on the case would be a refreshing one, at least.

"_It began in mystery, and it will end in mystery, but what a savage and beautiful country lies in between._" (Diane Ackerman)

* * *

• EDIT of the original chapter so that I can get back into the flow of this story. Mostly unchanged, I just added more details and separated paragraphs. Sorry for the long wait everyone!

• This was written as a response to the challenge/plotbunny posed by _Crushed-And-Broken-Rose_. This is a crossover, of course, however I am not very familiar with the cast of _CSI_, so please tell me if I got anything off about their characters. As it is, their role will be limited. From here on out, the cast of _Criminal Minds _will be taking over. Chapters may or may not be short/long.

• The title _May This Song Reach You_ is from a song called _Shine_, which was sung by a Japanese voice program called Vocaloid (the Vocaloid was Kaito) and it was composed by a man called Shigoshite-P.


	2. The Witching Hour

_**May This Song Reach You**_

_**Chapter Two: **__The Witching Hour_

"Wait, all you need is _four days?_ Are you serious?" one of the CSI members blurted. Gil Grissom had introduced the young man holding the bags of coffee as Nicholas Stokes. The entire team had the same fatigued, incredulous expressions, though with varying degrees of surprise. The FBI's arrival saw renewed determination in the hard-set eyes and stiff postures of the members. Grissom had recited the details of the evidence discovered during the five week period without batting an eyelash. The specifics were probably so familiar by now that the man could relate them in his sleep.

"That's what we're aiming for, Mr. Stokes," JJ said, offering them an optimistic smile she knew the CSI needed. However doubtful of the feds they were, no one denied that their arrival had brought on an exhausting amount of relief. They had offered the best they could, but now it was another team's turn to break the case.

Further down the alley the BAU team moved forward and crouched around the area that had housed the sixth victim a few short hours ago. Grissom produced a photograph of the scene from the night before and explained the consistency with the other crime scenes. Already these brilliant minds were at work conjuring ideas and possibilities as they studied the gruesome stains that had long since dried. There was much material to consider and four short days to divine and answer from it, but this wasn't something they hadn't done before.

"The sixth victim was Dietrich Fiedler, twenty-four years old. He disappeared at his part time job at a local convenience store during his lunch break two days ago and reappeared in this alley yesterday night. He attended the University of Nevada and on the surface, has no criminal history," Hotch repeated off the report that the head of the CSI had faxed them earlier that day. Everyone had taken a chance to review the reports on the plane, and the beginnings of a profile were forming in their brains.

"We'll split; Morgan, call Garcia and have her start on the victim backgrounds. Reid, go with him to the station and start the victimology and profile. JJ will start preparing to address the media. Rossi, Prentiss and I will stay here and visit the other scenes." Started into motion, the team began to move. As Hotch returned to the photograph and the walled crime scene the others climbed into their cars and mumbled about the heavy traffic again.

The rush to set up a workable headquarters in a spare conference room was over within minutes. The man introduced as Nicholas Stokes dragged in a transparent whiteboard over from another department and shoved the extra chairs from the room. With a last glance over his shoulder he bid them good luck and disappeared. Instantly, Reid began pinning pictures and writing names on the board while Morgan contacted Garcia. Six photos, six names, and six preliminary descriptions later had both agents locked away in the room with coffee and papers in hand.

Staring at the victims splayed out over the board never grew to be an easier sight to take in. No decent human being could ignore those horrors with an impartial constitution. Those sharp, uncomfortable emotions made Reid falter for a brief, almost unnoticeable moment before he pushed them aside without guilt. The others experienced similar sentiments, even if they did not always express them. Each of them had cases that struck home far deeper than the rest, and this time around Morgan noticed that Reid was the most disturbed as they slowly formed the profile.

The young men were in their early twenties, intelligent and well-bred, with bright futures ahead of them. Of course none compared in intelligence to Reid; none had that same level of genius that defined the youngest of the team, but they had all been within the higher rankings of their classes. According to Garcia, they didn't all attend the same colleges and universities, but all of them had won scholarships of some kind. Bless her and her computers, Reid thought as she rattled off vital background information from the other line. This unsub almost certainly chose these men for their bright minds and bright futures.

"He's definitely an organized killer," Morgan noted. Reid nodded as his hand moved rapidly across the board, drawing arrows darting here and there. He kept his hands and mind busy to prevent them from straying too far away. Yes, the man was an organized killer. Every piece of evidence so far pointed to that. Morgan paced behind Reid as he listed off the reasons. "For one, he chooses the right times to kidnap them where there won't be any witnesses. Second, the torture is too precise. He misses all of the vitals despite the amount of wounds. He redresses and poses all of them, showing guilt and awareness of his actions.

"But he's arrogant. He thinks he's better than the authorities and can outsmart them. That's why he displays the licenses. This also explains the week between kills. He either has no fear of getting caught or can't help himself anymore, or a likely combination of the two. And the reason why he rapes these men isn't because of sexual preference, I think. It's probably more of a domination and control issue than a man who actually prefers men."

"He might be targeting these types of people because of a grudge towards the upper class. He might have been born into the middle or lower class, and has some sort of resentment due to something that happened to him in the past," Reid offered, capping the marker as he drew in the last of the marks on a map of the city. The dumpsites were at random, the only correlation being that they were in the city and in a place that was quiet enough for the guy to place the men there, but active enough during the day for people to find them.

"What's strange is that while he is clearly organized in how he chooses his victims and executes the abduction and disposal, he's almost disorganized in his attack. He does avoid all vital spots, but the knife wounds are all deep and wild."

"That anger plays a big role," Morgan expanded. "When that anger diffuses, he probably leaves the men to bleed out and returns to dump the bodies once they've died, close to where they were kidnapped. It's a personal thing for the criminal. But he's smart, so I don't think he'll return to the dumpsites. It's far too populated here to risk it…Anyways, Garcia, you got anything for me yet?"

"_I'm working on it,_" was the reply from the laptop on the table. The audible sound of rapid typing exited the speakers as the technical analysis sped across the files. "_So far, there's nothing majorly weird with any of the families. No abuse charges, no domestic complaints- nothing. They're pretty much squeaky clean, except for the occasional speeding ticket. The men all had part time jobs, and were pretty devoted to their studies otherwise. Only a few of them went to the same college. They didn't do drugs, didn't get into fights, and never got sent to the dean's office for a misdemeanor. Their families were filthy rich, though. Like…mansion-rich._"

"So his victim pool is from the elite colleges and rich families," Morgan speculated as Reid jotted the information down on the board. "They all have similar appearances, young men with brown hair and thin, not so brawny statures, so he must identify them with someone who's wronged him in the past. Call Hotch and JJ. I think we're about ready with our half of the profile."

As in most offices they had visited across the country, the police took the profilers' words to heart and dispersed with fresh criteria and invigorated hope. The media was dealt with accordingly, having been given the barest minimum of information besides the fact that the FBI had taken over the case. In such a busy city, it was almost impossible to keep such news from the public. It benefitted them to release certain details and withhold others. JJ regulated that precarious balance, the smallest tilt of which was enough to set the criminal into a killing frenzy.

As they waited for the others to come, Reid sat back in a chair considering something Morgan had recently told him in a small jibe meant to lighten the mood. It sent unreasonable worries through his mind, though he wanted to pass the comment off. The young men _did_ somewhat resemble Reid, except in their social class. Left to his thoughts, he developed the strangest ideas, but did not discredit them, for they might have had a revelation in them. There was a reason why this criminal chose these victims and it all originated at his stressor.

That stressor could have come from any point in his past. The city was so full of movement that keeping record of people who went in and out was a daunting task. Garcia needed more parameters to narrow down the suspects, so they were at a small standstill. Not that there had been any suspects in the past four weeks. While the CSI had gathered some, those people had been cleared with solid alibis. Either way, the BAU never took those past suspects into account anyways, unless they had also come across the same suspect.

Hotch did bring back good news with the others. The dumpsites were near numerous establishments that opened early in the mornings, and were subjected to foot traffic once the night had passed. The corpses were positioned so that the first light would reveal them to any passerby. This criminal wanted to be noticed by the police. He wanted recognition for his crimes. This meant that he had an ego and with the proper bait, might just slip. The temptation to prove his skills and outsmart the feds would be too great. Still, unless he missed something vital, the only clues were likely to be the ones he wanted them to find.

Just as the team was about to retire for the night, Garcia called with breaking news. The chief of police stirred from his half asleep state on the couch in his office to overhear her report. Everyone else in the station had gone home, the occasional night guard passing through the hallways the only other signs of life. In the brightly lit conference room, empty coffee cups were scattered around the table. Prentiss pushed these aside to make room for the laptop and put Garcia on speaker.

"_Well, I have some very disturbing news for you,_" she started, the faintest sounds of a keyboard on the distant audio. Morgan made a comment about how she never had any not disturbing news and files instantly popped into the screen after the exchange was over. "_This isn't the first time he's killed. In fact, this isn't even the second or third time. I've compiled a collection of over twenty other cases __**so far**__ that are identical to these all across the country, all in major cities. It dates back to two years, as far as I know right now. The system's still scanning for more data. Here's the earliest case:_

"_Daniel Forester, age twenty-eight._" The pictures of a brown haired man flashed on the screen. Before Garcia laughed into explanations the rest of the desktop was overridden with various windows, most detailing petty crimes. The accusations and charges grew worse until they were facing murder charges, of which he had been acquitted. "_He had quite the criminal record, as you can see. His body was found in an alleyway in Boston- stabbed and raped with his driver's license by him. But he wasn't redressed like the others after him. According to the autopsy the man was a heavy drinker; the alcohol levels were way above normal._

"_He was also a college dropout, even though he came from a wealthy family. At the time of his death he had no immediate family left. He wasn't married and his parents had died years before. He was surviving on their huge inheritance, but didn't keep a steady job._"

"What about the stab wounds, Garcia?" Morgan asked. Garcia paused for a moment and pulled up the autopsy as well. The wounds were irregular, without any of the precision the current bodies displayed. It further solidified the probability of Forester being the first victim. After the first few murders the criminal would have grown bolder and more experienced with his weapon of choice. The first victim was also probably the one he had originally been after. "And for how long was he kept?"

"_Not very long; he disappeared that morning and reappeared late that night. The second murder was only a few miles away, same thing. They started in Boston and it's been slowly advancing across the country for two years. My God, how can all of this happen in two years?_" A tone of grief filled her voice before she started typing again. This time the previous files disappeared and a map replaced them. Little red dots appeared over it, about twenty in all with a ragged line connecting them by date. While the line diverged often, it headed in the same general direction- southwest.

No one answered the question they all wondered about at some point or another because there was no isolated answer. "And we're the first ones to notice this?" Hotch asked. Of course it was strange that so many homicides with a very specific MO were never noticed as having a connection. Garcia's confirmation was equally puzzling to everyone, especially when she told them that the murders had been investigated thoroughly. The local police had even searched outside their precincts in certain cases. "What I want to know now is how this guy's getting a place to murder the men in every city. A hotel is easy, but an isolated one isn't."

"_I'll check the parameters again, this time with the corresponding dates of the murders, arrival of men in the city, and cross reference them. I'll also try to find any large, isolated places rented out during that time. I'll get back to you; this will take some time. Anything else I should know?_" Garcia said over the phone. Rossi continued to tell her the profile- a white male between the age of twenty and thirty with a shaky job due to travel, a possible bad childhood, and access to large sums of money. They knew that without the money, there was no way this guy could travel across the country so fast.

When Garcia cut the connection the rest of the team dispersed to catch a few precious hours of sleep. Before they left the conference room, the chief of police stumbled and said, "Can she really do all that? You know, find the guy based on _that_?" A collective, tired chuckle spread through the team as they confirmed it. In such a busy city as this one, they needed whatever she could dig up and hopefully by morning they would be one step closer to catching this criminal.

It had been eating at Reid's mind the entire time since Morgan pointed out the similarities between him and the victims. Perhaps it would be a surefire way to catch this guy. The mere idea of it made him nervous to no end but if that was what it took, he would do it. The criminal preferred young, intelligent, well-off men with slightly long brown hair and a slight built. If they could give him just that, they might just catch him without waiting for another victim to disappear.

"_It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important._" (Author Conan Doyle)

* * *

• This is a combination of the original chapters 2 and 3. It again adds some more details while pretty much staying the same. Remember to remember the details! I'm still not sure why this is called _"_The Witching Hour"...


	3. A Ghost's Conviction

_**May This Song Reach You**_

_**Chapter Three:**__ A Ghost's Conviction_

Reid understood that his suggestion was not a light decision, nor was it one he was entirely comfortable with himself. It tortured his nerves to even consider being placed in that position again, and he knew the team would see the same when he told them. He would gladly think nothing more of the subject if there were another way to go about the case. If Reid died, he knew it would be infinitely harder on his teammates than himself. The dead held no further thoughts or emotions of themselves, but contributed every ounce of grief and guilt to those left living.

But justice sometimes came before personal safety. Garcia might conjure something in that database of hers soon, but they had not been allotted much time and Las Vegas was a vast city with people on the move each and every hour of the day. The criminal was becoming desperate for some reason. Each past murder had been spaced apart at intervals of weeks between the others. Whatever pressure in this unsub's life he had previously vented through the occasional murder was now so hard that it became a weekly occurrence. He would snap soon.

They had to remember that this man had money. He was a careful creature and if he refused to be found, he might continue the pattern for another two years if they failed here. That was why he had to propose this, at the very least, to gamble his life for that of the future victims.

"Absolutely not," Morgan retorted before Hotch's steady glare of refusal had turned into words. Reid expected such and ranted hardly without a pause, minding his voice to make sure that he didn't sound too desperate or too scared. Beyond the glass walls the police station was in a flurry answering calls, checking records that didn't hold the truth, and trying to chase after a man far from their limited reach. Morgan crossed his arms. "We are _not_ risking that, kid. You should know that."

"How else are we going to catch him? He's smart. He hadn't made a single mistake even though he's escalated in his killings. Are we just going to wait until he does mess up, if he ever does? How long will that take?" Reid wanted to tell the two men about _his_ concern, _his_ misgivings, and the terror he sensed around the corner, only if he told they would never consider allowing him to act as bait. Their worry and protectiveness made him happy of course, happy that he'd finally found friends he could trust and who could trust him, except on this issue.

"We're going to catch him the way we've caught ever other criminal: through the profile, not through sacrificing our team. That's the end of the discussion, Reid," Hotch said firmly in that no-nonsense, strict and commanding tone. Their commander stalked away after that, leaving Reid with the sense that he failed and Morgan with a consolatory tone that was only half-intended to make him feel better. He was undoubtedly glad that Hotch hadn't given in to Reid's demands and forced a smile as they headed back towards the drawing board. Three days left until they discovered another body.

The team didn't know, _couldn't_ have ever known except through some divine intervention, that 'three days' were subjective words. They were well acquainted with the tides of fate and chance, the possibility that anything might happen to anyone for any reason, and sometimes for no plausible reason at all. Each time they announced these things to the public they ran the inevitable risk of alerting the criminal, but their predecessors had decided long ago that taking people from ignorance and informing them was worth the risk.

Garcia had worked endlessly since their arrival two days earlier. She had narrowed the list down to some remote places in and around Las Vegas, recently rented or inhabited by white males anywhere from twenty to thirty years of age. The team leaned over the considerably small list and scrutinized its contents, containing the names and faces of: _Travis Meyer, Riley Thomson, David McCarran, Ethan Wallace, _and _George Sanders._ They were all potential suspects now.

Each area rented by these men had been rented recently. They were private and remote enough that no passerby would ever hear the screams. All of the men owned vans that were large enough to transport a victim. That still left five locations and five men who were not inclined to give the police any rein over their domains. These were the types who knew how to keep secrets.

"We'll split up to cover the locations. Look for anything off about these men- any nervousness or hostility. Garcia, how did these men access these places if they don't have well-paying or consistent jobs?" Hotch asked.

"_Mostly through family fortunes or maybe even through some under-the-counter business,_" she said over the computer. Her fingers typed away as the team decided how to split themselves. "_One guy, George Sanders, is on a honeymoon here. The others are here for no particular reason at first glance. Vegas will just attract people, huh? It attracts the crazies…no offence there, Reid. I'll send you guys the info on the rest of them in a second._"

He muttered a 'none taken' just as Morgan decided that he was sticking with Reid, in all likelihood due to his earlier discussion with Hotch. Just the be sure that he didn't pull anything risky, he supposed. Now that Garcia had dug something up, he was second-guessing himself, even if he didn't want to admit it. It was definitely a relief. That was probably where his uneasy was stemming from. At least interviewing Ethan Wallace would force his mind to concentrate on his surroundings and the case than himself. With that firmly in his mind, he climbed into the passenger seat of the car and Morgan drove off into the streets of Las Vegas.

Morgan might not have questioned Reid during the ride, but without a doubt he'd already observed all the young man had to tell about his determination and hesitation on the earlier issue. For the positive side, having profilers as friends and coworkers meant that they could tell when something was wrong when Reid himself wasn't able to talk about it. They understood not to question each other too much, and knew which boundaries they couldn't cross. Reid drew out the printed profiles of the prospective men to interview and flipped through the files.

George Sanders rented a dining hall for his and his wife's honeymoon. Parties were held there on a regular basis for the past few weeks, and they were apparently intent on drawing out the post-marriage afterglow as long as possible. From the initial overview they ruled him out. Staff also worked around the area throughout the day and the couple rented a small apartment some blocks down in a highly populated area. There would be a thin chance of the couple getting away with hiding struggling victims for a few days.

Travis Meyer dealt with shipping and rented a warehouse for storage. Riley Thomson had no outward reason for being in Vegas besides that he was dwindling away his pocket money from an inheritance. Both his parents had been murdered recently and he seemed to have sunk into a depression sated by gambling. He rented an entire floor of an apartment building just to be alone, and the cost was rather low. Records showed that he may not have been taking his medication for depression regularly.

David McCarran had access to sums of money Garcia could not find the origins of, and had rented a theatre in his producer's name. Reid guessed that the minor actor hoped that his contribution might have made him a name in the industry, though what he was doing there with that money was beyond reason. Ethan Wallace seemed to have spent much of his money on hospital bills and consultations that were under lock and key. He had also rented a floor of an apartment building, a high class one this time, though it received few tenants due to supposed 'ghosts' haunting the place.

The possibilities of everything that could have gone wrong with those lives made Reid's head hurt as they worked to narrow down the suspects. Any number of instances could have gone awry in each person's life, but there had to be one person who had been affected by it the most. When he and Morgan questioned Wallace, they had to inquire upon those hospital bills and consultations. Traffic was heavy at night though, so it took over half an hour to cross town and pull into the parking garage of the apartment building.

The ghost stories had successfully warded off any would-be tenants. The nine story establishment was dim against its radiant neighbors with some odd golden windows dotting the otherwise grey face. The lights were lonesome entities, flickering on and off at random intervals. The parking garage contained even fewer cards, most worn by years of use. None looked new. Exchanging glances and similar preconceptions, the agents walked until they found the entrance and emerged into the first floor reception area. The young woman working the counter tried to welcome them with a smile over the weariness night had brought. At least this area had some sense of décor, as if someone had tried to expel the rumors with wallflowers and pretty carpeting.

"We're with the FBI. We're looking for Ethan Wallace who moved in here about two months ago. He rented a whole floor for himself," Morgan told her. The woman nodded in a split second and withdrew a small ring of keys from underneath the desk. She passed the ring to them without a word and flicked at the phone in her hand, answering a text with nimble fingers. A black laptop beside her emitted some sort of rock music played on a low volume.

Reid sorted through the information again. The last murders were in Monticello a month ago. Wallace had apparently been in Vegas for two months. It was possible that he had driven or taken public transit to commit the murders, but why bother coming to Vegas first if he had unfinished business in Monticello? Unless he thought _that_ many steps ahead and was cautious to the extreme, it was a point worth discussing.

When they walked across the reception area to the small hall where the elevators, stairs, and mail room were, Reid was relieved that the elevators were working. Wallace had rented out the eighth floor, and it would have taken an awful lot of time to walk all those flights. As they waited for it to descend, the woman at the counter suddenly spoke. A cup of coffee was in her hand, but Reid hadn't seen any steam from it before. There wasn't a microwave or coffee machine in sight.

"Don't stay too long. The ghosts like to make strange noises at night. Of course, some of it's from that building next door. They're always crowing up a racket in there; it's bad for business as it is. Someone almost died here two years ago, my ma says. She fell off the balcony, but she probably deserved it. She was always making a damn racket, just like the building next door. There was a party; her guests trashed the place." The woman finished with a careless wave and took a sip of the lukewarm coffee that she seemed satisfied with.

The elevator pinged a moment later, the arrow above it lit as the doors slid open.

"Don't know why a story like that scared people away though," Morgan muttered as they stepped on. Reid shrugged; people had their reasons and superstitions. There was so much more competition in Vegas anyways, so people preferred taking their business elsewhere. It was good for those who didn't believe, though. The rates were cheap, which was why Wallace had rented an entire floor. "We'll have to ask her about Wallace when we come back down. Someone has to know about the guy's habits."

Ethan Wallace lived on eighth floor. The ninth was empty due to lack of tenants and the ones below sparsely inhabited. The lower floors were where they had seen a majority of the illuminated windows. To give the building the illusion of inhabitance, Reid assumed that they had rented him the upper floors that would normally cost more. The lights would fool some people. When they arrived there, however, there were twelve doors and most were likely uninhabited. With a sigh, Reid took one side and Morgan took the other.

Why anyone of a normal sanity would bother themselves with this was beyond him. With that money he could have just rented a nice and large single apartment in a slightly better part of town. A door towards the end of the hallway creaked open as Reid reached the third one down the wall. Of course he chose the end of the hallway, _of course_.

A pleasant young man in his twenties with easy features and casual clothes emerged, an expression of faint but gentle surprise on his face. He stepped into the hallway, almost at home among the twelve impersonal doors. The numbered labels served only to hand them another face of anonymity. The man ruffled his strangely fluffed hair and offered them a genuinely open smile, though it was somewhat hesitant and awkward, suggesting that he wasn't accustomed towards visitors and meeting people. Morgan gave him a neutral one back, introducing them as FBI here to ask questions, as agent Derek Morgan and Doctor Spencer Reid.

"I'm Ethan. It's a pleasure to meet you. What do you need to ask?" Wallace flashed them an appropriate amount of concern, glancing at their uniforms as he spoke. EBI meant that something serious was afoot.

"Why'd you rent this entire floor for yourself? It's pretty spacious," Morgan whistled. It was a little lonely too, Reid added in silence. The man shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He seemed reluctant, maybe from embarrassment. Reid relieved him of an answer temporarily.

"Is it because of the consultations at the hospital?" Wallace started in surprise, but seemed to calm as he remembered that they were feds. Of course they were privy to such information. He gave them a guilty smile.

"As you can see, I'm in perfectly good health and I have no need of a consultation. They're not for me, but for a friend of mine. Where we're from, doctors and specialists can't do a thing for him, so we've been trying to find a second opinion." Frustration was evident in the young man's tone, his clenched fists slowly slipping from his pockets. He nibbled at his bottom lip, perhaps not even aware that he was biting the skin raw and pink. It was a nervous habit, but the man must have had some control over it because his lips weren't too damaged as far as Reid could tell.

"I rented this area because he- and I, as well- aren't very good with people. Can you understand that? Las Vegas is filled with nothing but people. We didn't really buy into the ghost thing, so this place worked perfectly. Expensive places make us nervous sometimes too, you know, like we don't exactly belong there. So I chose this place." Wallace _did _give an impression of isolation from human interaction. While he was easy on the eyes and had fair manners, he seemed plain uncomfortable with speech. Perhaps his unease stemmed from their rank as FBI, though.

"You inherited money from your family, right?" He nodded in response, a very quick flash of pain across his countenance before it disappeared. "What's wrong with your friend? Is he sick?"

"A bad car accident when we were younger," Wallace muttered as he retreated towards the room, in an instant no longer comfortable with his surroundings. Instead of the hallway accommodating his figure, the young man now seemed to disturb the scene with his mere presence. A deeply painful frown marred his face as he hovered in the doorway, unsure of whether to retreat or stay. "It's been painful for him ever since. The doctors said they could never fix it; that he'll be in pain for the rest of his life. Some days he can't walk and some days he can. _That_ is why I can't give up hope.

"If he can walk half the time, why not all the time," Wallace insisted, desperation in his tone. He calmed once he realized that the FBI had nothing to do with his personal issues. He took a step back and muttered, "We aren't asking for a miracle. We just want someone to listen to us. Usually he's on a heavy dosage of medication, so he may not be awake right now…I can…get him if you want to talk to him?"

"It's alright," Reid said after confirming it with Morgan. He softened his voice, which made Wallace linger for a moment in silence. "You're a very good friend. To have come all the way here for him…what's his name?"

"Shea Taggart. He's…kind of like my little brother now, so I guess it just comes natural to me now…I don't even worry about money anymore," Wallace shrugged. Reid reassured him that they meant his friend no harm and if he was really not fit to speak with them, it was okay. As a precautionary measure they needed to check the rest of the rooms as well. Wallace paused for a moment and nodded, seeing the ring of keys in Morgan's hands. "They're mostly empty, but some of the lights are out, so watch your step."

A quick search yielded nothing but pests and cobwebs. The only inhabited apartment was the one in the far corner. Unless Wallace managed to set everything up in one room and maintain that honest composure, he didn't commit those crimes. There was no surefire way of knowing without a search warrant, though, and no way for them to enter grounds where they weren't welcomed. Wallace watched the agents search contentedly, relaxing back into his surroundings with the ease of a chameleon. Reid and Morgan returned shortly to ask a few more questions.

"What do you do on a normal day?"

"I go to work early, come home and make sure Shea's alright, and then go talk to doctors in hospitals or clinics. Usually he's fine; he's a lot more independent than I give him credit for, granted, but I still worry…Sometimes I go out for a bit and have some fun, but it's usually only for a few hours." Wallace even seemed somewhat guilty as he spoke, but he did admit that he needed a break every now and again. They asked him where he had been during the times of the abductions. He shifted uncomfortably as he answered.

"Ah, well…normally I'm at home eating lunch around that time. At night I'm either here or out with some acquaintances at the casino or something. Sometimes I go out to eat with my coworkers, but I try not to get attached to anyone here, you know? It's kind of sad when you have to leave…So I don't many that many friends. I mean…it's also been a little scary around here lately. You know it's bad when the news doesn't tell you anything. About those murders, I mean- uh, that's why you guys are here, right?" Wallace asked.

"It _is_ kind of scary," he admitted with a glance into the apartment behind him. "If that hadn't happened to him, and if my parents hadn't died, maybe I wouldn't think it's that scary. But once something bad happens to you, you begin to realize that it can very well happen again. I mean, I don't go to school anymore, but still…it's scary. I feel like such a kid again, saying such things!" Wallace laughed nervously, ducking his head in embarrassment.

"It's nothing to be ashamed about," Morgan reassured him. "It's better to be aware of it and you're not a coward if you're scared it could happen to you, because it _can_ happen to anyone. Of course, that's why we're here- to stop him before anyone else gets hurt. Don't worry so much alright?"

The young man nodded and gave them a weak smile in return. Reid and Morgan bid him goodbye, having wrapped up the interview, and returned to the ground floor with mixed feelings. The receptionist had timed out, so Morgan stashed the ring of keys underneath the desk before they left.

Reid didn't know if the chill he got was from the ghosts or not, even though the evening was rather warm and he wasn't sure the building had any ghosts to begin with. What he did know was that Ethan Wallace _was_ hiding something; after all, _everyone_ in the world was hiding something. He had to ask Garcia about Shea Taggart. Did he really exist? Had Wallace lied through his teeth, despite the numerous hospital bills he had racked up?

"_Everything happens to everybody sooner or later if there is time enough._" (George Bernard Shaw)

* * *

• Again, this edit is mostly the same as the previous chapter 4. The last scene here had a few more lines of conversation put in, though. So with this, we're up to speed!


	4. Fancy Meeting You Here

_**May This Song Reach You**_

_**Chapter Four: **__Fancy Meeting You Here_

Hotch had decided to question Travis Meyer alone. The man worked and lived in a less busy area of Las Vegas and the house was somewhere near the warehouse he rented for his shipping business, receiving truckloads from employees hired to travel cross-country on a daily basis. His partner was across the States however, probably driving down some back roads or resting in the relative comfort of the truck. The man had been absent from Vegas for over three weeks and was not a liable suspect.

As was routine Hotch intended to ask Meyer about him anyways. There was always the possibility that the guy had a partner, though they hadn't concluded that at first glance. The personal aspect of the crimes had everything to do with this unsub's control over the situation. As he was an arrogant man, it wasn't likely he could tolerate another dominant male in the scheme.

Meyer wasn't home, so Hotch found him in the warehouse screaming obscenities with intermingled instructions at his workers. The middle-aged man had a balding head covered in a thin sheen of sweat and an unpleasant, grating voice. Despite the distinctive limp he sported, Hotch had no doubt that a lifetime of hard work had made him strong. Taking the man down might serve a problem for him or anyone else on the team. It would have been easy for this muscled man to restrain and drag away any of the victims.

Walking close enough to be heard but not to be struck, Hotch caught Meyer's attention with a wave down. The man scoffed at his appearance, most likely from his proper manner of dress and overall unthreatening figure. His dislike of feds or at least police interference was obvious at first glance.

The workplace never stopped, the volume never tapered off as the men talked in the dusty, gritty office near the entrance. Meyer hobbled towards a rickety folding metal chair and collapsed with a grunt, beady eyes glaring in annoyance from a thick salt-and-pepper mane of hair. Hotch maintained a collected composure, having dealt with far worse and unpleasant people in his career than a disgruntled worker. For instance, the wrath of a woman scorned was much fiercer than Meyer despite his efforts.

"Where were you on the afternoon of the disappearance of Dietrich Fiedler?" Hotch began, glad that the other man had no qualms about the blunt approach. Meyer mumbled something about not quite remembering the date, which Hotch provided him a moment later. Nothing stood out that might direct suspicion onto him. Every worker in the warehouse that afternoon was testament to Meyer's dictatorial rule and presence to enforce it. His lunch breaks were in the office with some of his close contractors- a solid alibi that would require one too many mouths to silence if he were the criminal. Hotch continued the routine questions, but his hand twitched towards his pocket to strike another name off the list.

Once inside the protective shell of his car, Hotch exhaled a few dry coughs induced by the constant dust clouds disturbed in the warehouse. When he'd calmed, he called Garcia and confirmed the fact that Meyer wasn't a likely suspect. The heightened trill of the tech analysis' voice indicated that something good had happened, at least. Hotch started the engine as he asked, "What about the others? Has the team interviewed them yet?"

"_Morgan and Reid finished. The apartment Ethan Wallace is renting is supposed to be haunted. They checked all the rooms except for one and found nothing. Wallace said that he and his friend are living in the other room, but he wouldn't let them talk to him. After a quick search I can say that Sea Taggart definitely exists, but there's not much on record about this guy. At least he's not a ghost. They said that Wallace seemed pretty clean, but that he's hiding something in that apartment. They couldn't tell for sure if it's harmless or not._

"_George Sanders is pretty clean too, except for the occasional reckless driving charge here and there…seems like he was at parties or with his friends or wife during all the murders. Prentiss says that he might have been able to slip away, but there's apparently no reason for him to have any grudge towards the victims. He doesn't have any financial problems or otherwise. Now McCarran, Thomson, and Wallace are different stories._

"_Thomson's parents were murdered by his cousin in Florida recently, leaving him a huge inheritance. Wallace and his friend's parents were close business associates who were murdered by rivals in the industry over a decade ago. I can't find much on McCarran. He had an average childhood, nothing too extreme on record. But he did rent that theatre even though he's a low rate actor. __I'm still trying to find where this money came from, but it has a huge trail._"

Thanks, good work Garcia. Tell the team to meet back at the station. We have to reevaluate those three men," Hotch said. As his car chugged through the dense Las Vegas streets, Hotch glared at the empty space before him as if it might divine answers from thin air. According to the CSI, no trace fibers were left behind on the victims' bodies, which meant one of two things. He couldn't be too mentally unstable, having been smart enough to remove any evidence. Then again, he could be quite unstable and still have a rational thought process. At any rate he had to be a relatively clean person.

He was also securely accustomed towards this routine after two years. With FBI interference he wasn't likely to become too nervous, but his confidence levels were rising, even if they hadn't witnessed the collateral damage yet. Somewhere along the line he _would_ make a mistake and it was their job to catch that mistake and pursue it with the determination of bloodhounds. Hotch just prayed that Reid wouldn't run out of line. He knew the younger man sometimes doubted his own abilities, not realizing his importance to the team and wanting to compensate for his disillusions.

While the bureau assigned undercover cases, those were generally long-term infiltrations requiring high levels of trust. Just as the BAU's job was to profile criminals for time-sensitive cases, specialized teams were sent to carry out undercover missions. The bureau as a general rule avoided situations that placed the investigators' lives at risk unnecessarily. Reid knew that they had caught these types of criminals before, and sometimes while stumbling even deeper in the dark than they were now. He had been crucial in catching many of those men. Sometimes he just needed to be reminded of that.

So far the two most likely suspects were McCarran and Thomson, but Hotch stored Wallace away in the back of his mind for later. The picture of him Garcia had sent them showed a young man of fairly tall, but thin stature. The other two were slightly more muscular and had different faces about them. It could have been any of those three. And the fact that Shea Taggart existed threw another factor into the mix. He would have noticed if Wallace did something drastic like murder men in their apartment, and if he was not an accomplice, he would also be a victim.

Reid and Morgan had returned to the station shortly before the others. The night was well on its way, and they had succeeded in interviewing all of their possible suspects. The team gathered around the conference table with their collective notes, arguing theories, disproving suspicions, and yanking details from details until they were cross-eyed. Some of the suspects hadn't given them much to work with and some had given _too much_ information to be genuine.

Eventually they retired for the night with the clock continuously ticking away the minutes of someone's life.

Reid in the meantime took a walk. Vegas had been his home after all, and the streets were familiar to him. When all of this blew over, he should go visit his mother. She would be happy to see him. He sighed and pressed his hands into his pockets. Maybe it _had_ been a stupid idea in retrospect. Just because he was a genius didn't mean he never made stupid decisions on spur of the moment irrationality. It was that feeling of uselessness or worse, of being burdensome, that procured such sentiments. But now that they were heading somewhere, it had faded.

He had only crossed a short distance from the hotel, the building still in sight, when he paused at a bus stop. The awning was made of hard, clear plastic with a few inserts of recent movie posters so that the surface was partially solid and partially translucent. Reid ducked into the space where only a single old woman stood completely ignoring him as he peered into the street from his cover with narrowed eyes. He was sure he had seen someone familiar there for a brief moment.

Most of the storefronts were open, but one person was busy yanking the metal shutters over the displays for the night. It was a seasonal greeting cards store, the type that sold Hallmark souvenirs and gifts for the holidays. His eyes focused in on the young man who was closing up, but he couldn't remember having ever seen that face before. It must have been a different person, he figured. With a sigh he stepped back out and onto the street again. He was just getting a little edgy, like Wallace had mentioned.

"Detective…o-oh, I mean, agent, I didn't think I'd see you here," said a voice from behind. Reid swung around and identified Ethan Wallace a moment later. The young man had a light brown jacket over his fair clothes and a breathy laugh on his lips. It was now evident that he embarrassed easily. He had a small plastic bag in his hand with a typical 'thank you' printed on the plastic. Reid motioned to the object with a curious expression. Wallace lifted the bag in front of his face, a tired smile behind it. "It's medicine. We're trying this now."

"Oh…what is it for- the pain?" Reid asked. Wallace nodded and lowered the bag as they continued walking, pulled along by the crowd. "If you're curious about the case, I can't tell you much."

Wallace shook his head. "No, it's fine. I'm fine not knowing anything about it; it'll probably just freak me out more. I guess that's why I called out to you back there. Even though it's silly, I still can't help but remember that night years and years ago…" Reid glanced over at the young man, whose face had taken on a haunted, distant countenance. Garcia had said that his parents had been murdered by rivals in their business industry while Wallace had been in the house with them. He had been a child then.

"You think I did it, right? That I might have done it," Wallace said after a time. Reid glanced at him from the corner of his eye. They were about the same height. He couldn't see the young man's expression, his head turned down. "Shea was awake when I left. You could talk to him if you want. He usually stays up once he's up. He'll answer the phone."

Reid hesitated for a minute, but eventually gave in. It wasn't like he was disappearing on the team or anything. All he had to do was talk to Shea Taggart over a cell phone in a huge crowd of people. Wallace pulled out a silver phone from his pocket and handed it over after the screen had begun to dial a preprogrammed number.

"_Ethan, what's up?_" said the voice from the other end. It was a little lethargic and had a tinge of sleepy embarrassment. Wallace smiled and spoke into the receiver, telling him that the FBI agent who had stopped by earlier wanted to talk to him. "_Okay…Hi, I'm Shea. Uh…what do you need to know?_"

Reid was about to respond when he felt a sharp sting, like the acute spasm of random nerves. The young man on the other end of the phone was silent, or at least Reid _thought_ he was silent. He glanced at Wallace, but the guy had turned the corner and was out of sight. The silver phone was still in his hand. "Wait…" he called. "Your phone…"

"_When all's said and done, all roads lead to the same end. So it's not so much which road you take, as how you take it._" (Charles de Lint)

* * *

• Sorry for the lame ending...that's probably the part that got me stuck for so long.


	5. A Friendly Ghost

_**May This Song Reach You**_

_**Warning! There's rape in this chapter, though it's not explicit.**_

_**Chapter Five:**__ A Friendly Ghost_

The young man with the auburn hair and lidded green eyes drew his tongue over thin, pale lips once before a reassuring smile slid on and off his face in seconds. The disheveled sheets crumpled around his long, gangly legs slipped to the ground as he pulled his weight into a sitting position with strong arms of equal proportions. His thin chest heaved, not from the exertion, but in anticipation of the footsteps approaching the windowless room. The loose clothes adorning his frame now served as an alternative purpose than to lend him a ghostly image.

Spidery fingers pushed loose strands of hair behind his ears as he tilted his head sideways, his eyes fixated on the far wall. "Don't worry. He always starts with me," he said comfortingly. Reid could not see if another smile had crossed his features through the shadows, but all traces of one would have been wiped away the second the door creaked open and soft footsteps entered the room. Possibilities swept through his mind each minute since his arrival, but none were close enough to success to risk. Escaping with a crippled young man of nearly identical height would prove the most difficult task.

"Hi Shea," Wallace smiled as he slid down on the space beside the other man, in all appearances an amiable friend. He slipped an arm around Shea's waist and rested that hand on the hip there. Wallace breathed against the side of his face as he perched his chin on the young man's shoulder. If this had been under normal circumstances, the scene might have appeared endearing. Shea, in an act of pure farce, leaned against his captor's side and allowed himself a movement of the lips that resembled a smile.

"Did you tell him the situation he's being faced with? Did you prepare him enough?" Wallace trailed off as his voice dropped to a mere whisper only Shea could hear. Color rose into the pale man's face and he shied away from Wallace's softly wandering hands with a fair smile plastered on his face. Reid watched as the older man's fingers picked at waistband of the sweats on Shea's hips, an ill wave of dread rolling through his stomach at the advances. Even worse was Shea's forced participation in such acts. He must have done this dozens of times.

Wallace pressed his palm against the other man's shoulder, one arm carefully, almost _tenderly_ lowering him to the pillows. Reid didn't want to witness the sight anymore, but part of Wallace's specific rules that Shea had told him required that he watch. For each time he refused to look the guy would worsen both of their situations without qualms. At least, that had been what Shea indiscriminately told him, his eyes distant as he spoke words he must have said twenty times before.

The auburn hair flared against the white pillows and his green eyes fluttered as Wallace pressed their bodies close, invading his mouth as he positioned himself above the other man. Though it was difficult to see details in the dark, Reid caught the slight movement of the criminal's eyes as he observed both victims through equally distorted lenses. A thin smirk crossed his features as he lifted his lips from Shea's and flicked his tongue at the young man's nose. He liked playing with his victims. He enjoyed the screaming protests behind their eyes and the obvious movements otherwise on the outside.

"I'm always a fair lover, aren't I? You're the only one who gets to choose: hard or gentle?" Wallace gave him a narrow grin that did not reach his eyes. Shea closed his eyes and exhaled a breath that shook Wallace's brown hair. He had told Reid about this as well, about how Wallace pretended that he had a choice and almost never allowed him the option he preferred. Shea had no illusions about the sex anymore; it would happen whether or not he wanted it, no matter how much he played into Wallace's affections for him.

There were those few rare times when Wallace had listened and taken him with the gentleness of a lover treating him to his first experience, Shea had admitted. It was those encounters that he cherished, sick and twisted as it sounded. Wallace, Ethan as Shea called him, had once been his precious friend and in some way still remained an important person to him. There had been a time when they were normal, he promised Reid, a time when Wallace _had_ treated him with nothing but kindness.

"I want you to hold me gently," Shea said in a voice that was obviously far too devious for the truth. Wallace nodded and crashed their lips together again in a violent union, vicious as he nipped and sucked at the other man's exposed skin along his mouth and neck. His hands quickly worked the shirt up to expose Shea's chest and ran them along his thin torso. Neither of them looked as if they ate much, but Shea had explained that as a side effect of the medication. His crippling condition, he reassured Reid, was real.

"Do you think he likes it?" Wallace said aloud. Reid winced; he didn't want to answer, but Shea had explained this trap in their previous conversation. Some thought he was addressing Shea only, but that proved a fatal mistake. The auburn haired man let slip a small, tight moan that might or might not have been fake.

"He might, even if he's straight," Shea whispered. "How couldn't he?"

"He…he looks like he does," Reid forced himself to say, hoping it was efficient. As was the case in these uncertain situations, it was safer to play along with the fantasy and wait for back up. To ensure survival of the agent and victim was the first priority.

Wallace seemed satisfied with the answers and continued his ministrations, gradually growing in intensity until he had Shea writhing beneath him. Reid wasn't sure if it was from pain or pleasure anymore, but he had seen Wallace open a few cuts along the other man's shoulders and neck as he bit him. Eventually he worked his way to the bottom where he paused for a moment. He slid the sweats off Shea's limp legs and carefully, with the extreme tenderness of a caretaker, turned him over onto his stomach. Shea helped him the best he could with his arms, but winced as he tried to move one leg over the other.

He had explained that Wallace never gave him his painkillers before these acts if he intended to be rough. The medicine numbed more than just his lower half, so even Shea himself didn't prefer taking them if he was having a good day. Now the man seemed embarrassed to have almost his entire body laid bare for their witness to see and buried his face against the pillow, careful not to appear as if he dreaded the hands manipulating his remaining clothes behind him.

Wallace gripped the already bruised hips below him and Reid clearly saw the white scars along the length of the man's legs and winced. Shea squeezed the sheets between his fists and locked his shoulders, trying with all his strength to support some of his weight with his forearms as Wallace lifted his hips off the bed. The strain on his leg muscles and lower back was excruciating when they were stressed like that, he explained to Reid. He bore it with all he had and played into the act as he moaned and whispered things only lovers would say.

"You're too good for me," Wallace whispered fondly as he pressed against the other man's bare skin. Both were heaving from exertion for different reasons, but at that moment Reid truly felt as if he were intruding and witnessing something sinful he ought not to ever know about. When he absolutely couldn't bear the sight anymore he glanced away or focused only on one point of the picture, such as Shea's clenched fists or pale, spidery scars. Still, there was no way to ignore the entire picture.

He had been gagged until now, otherwise he would have tried to talk Wallace out of it, collateral damage or not. All he could hope for now was for someone to have noticed his disappearance and begin hunting down any of the three suspects. Just hearing the criminal's groans and his victim's short, gasping moans and the act itself was enough torture without having to watch it. Wallace didn't have a strong, burly build, but Shea still seemed infinitely frailer beneath him. He kept his victims bound and Shea was immobile already, so that was how he controlled them.

"Ethan…I…I…uh…" He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, but all he saw were the tears in Shea's green eyes and the redness of his lips. No matter the consequences, Reid completely turned away as Wallace was about to finish, his thrusts rapid and brutal. He thought he ought to give Shea as much dignity as he could in the most embarrassing moments of his rape, because Wallace wasn't even satisfied with his own pleasure. The sounds of the two across the room were loud as Reid closed his eyes to the ceiling and ran through a few passages to a book he hadn't read in a month or so in his mind.

When they had finished, Wallace rearranged Shea to the other man's liking and laid the sheets over him with kind hands and a soft, tired smile, as if he had done everything right. He paid Reid little attention as he took their clothes away for cleaning and left the room. The suddenness of his departure surprised Reid, but he took advantage of the opportunity and rushed off the bed the best he could with bound limbs. His hands tore the gag away and he ungracefully wriggled his way over to the other side of the room until he could pull himself to his knees and lean over the side of the bed.

Shea blinked away the remaining tears and brought out shaky hands to untie the bindings on Reid's wrists. He gave the agent a fatigued, watery smile and snuggled deeper into the blankets when he had worked the knots free. Reid fretted when he was free, but Shea shook his head and breathed a few soft sighs, his auburn hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. His bruised lips moved a few times, but he seemed unready to speak just yet.

"I'm okay. It-it even felt kind of good at the end, so don't worry about me."

Reid shook his head. It wasn't okay at all. They both tried to offer each other reassuring smiles, but failed in the process. Reid inhaled a deep breath. He didn't want to do this so soon after that assault, but he didn't know how much time they would have together and he needed this information if he was to escape this intact. "Can I ask you a few questions?

"When did he start…hurting you?"

Shea remained in a deep, contemplative silence as images from a time long past flooded his private vision. The memories caused him profound pain, but he eventually answered. "He wasn't always like this. He started as my friend, later as my protector when our parents died, and then we went from brothers to lovers. I guess that's where the line began to blur. He used to be so…sweet. Sometimes he still _is_ sweet and I end up letting him do what he wants because I loved that boy so much. For a long time in the beginning, he had been afraid to even touch me."

"Why had he been afraid?"

"S-someone almost…when we were…when I got these scars, someone almost raped me." A bitter, pained expression plagued Shea's face as he curled in on himself. Reid wanted to tell him to stop, but knew he couldn't. "They might have been joking, but we were only kids back then. We couldn't tell if it was just a cruel joke on top of everything else that happened that night. He – Ethan – almost didn't save me that night. They made him choose between his sister's life and my…my…virginity.

"I guess that's why he does this to me. I made him choose. I made him so guilty that he saved me instead. Even though he always says he loves me since then, I don't think he was ever being really honest with himself or me. If I hadn't screamed and cried so much, he would have been able to save his sister. He just kept on pushing for more and more until I said 'no'! But by then he wouldn't stop."

"What happened?" Shea seemed confused by the question. "What happened to make him so angry all of a sudden? This started two years ago, right?"

Shea was surprised that Reid knew the exact date their relationship had become abusive and violent. He nodded. "We found one of the guys who killed our parents. He was the one who threatened me and who killed his sister. The court let him free, though. We just found him in Boston one day by chance. Ethan was so hurt and angry and the next thing I knew I had a guy bound and gagged in our apartment one afternoon.

"To tell the truth, I wanted revenge, too. Because of those guys I can't ever walk again and the only person who's stuck with me and my disability all these years is a guy who hates me for being a coward. I was okay with it – scaring the guy a bit, watching as Ethan hurt him. We played at having rough sex for him, but I didn't think Ethan would actually do it…and I didn't think he'd end up dead. Still, it hadn't really…scared me. I said, 'Okay, we have a dead guy in our place. Now what do we do?'

"I freaked out the next time it happened, and the next, and after the fifth I realized that it wasn't going away," Shea said in a muffled voice obscured by the sheets. Reid caught a glimpse of his eyes, which were no longer teary and had a distant film cast over them. He didn't sound guilty, but his actions drew him farther and farther away from Reid. "I didn't want him to do it anymore, but he couldn't hear me. But he was my lover. We had committed that first murder together, so I never did anything about it. I don't regret that.

"Besides, if I hadn't made him chose me that night, he wouldn't have been so miserable taking care of a crippled boy. After the fifth he told me all of that. I think I had known it, somewhere inside. I hadn't wanted to admit it, true."

"It isn't your fault. You were a child. He chose to kidnap that man and all the men after him."

"I still love him." Shea's voice quivered, but he seemed to be forcing back sobs. "He's a _great_ and _wonderful_ person. He's still my lover and I'd do it all again to be with him."

Reid stored the information away for future reference. If any of those points struck even a tiny chord in Wallace's heart, it would give Reid enough leg room to break apart his composure or so he hoped. If what Shea said held true, the man had to have some ounce of love left within him for his lover.

"You should go to sleep. He'll probably be back tomorrow."

"Hey…is he really trying to ask doctors about your legs or is that just a cover?" Reid inquired as he untied his ankles and walked back to the other bed. Shea had explained to him the layout of the apartment earlier and he saw no point in trying to escape now.

"No, he really is trying. It's why he's been getting angrier and angrier."

"_History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again_." (Maya Angelou)

* * *

• No comments for the moment. Hope that scene turned out okay. .


End file.
